SAN LUIS OBISPO
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Eddie indicated an offramp and led me to the streets of San Luis Obisbo. We wound through the rows of houses until my passenger pointed to a drive. The house looked like it was built in the 40's. It was a pleasing looking blue and white wooden structure with a porch and a picket fence. "Don't go nowhere while I check out who's home." He was out of the car and up the walk before I could shout, hey, I thought I was dropping you off.
After what seemed like 10 minutes, although it might have been less, I got out to walk around. I sniffed around the front yard and circled towards the porch steps like I was a dog tied up in the yard. I could clearly hear the din of an argument.
The female voice was the most distinct because of its higher pitch, "You only think of yourself. You've always only thought of yourself."
"You should talk. You're the one who moved away."
"She's lived in that house practically her whole life. Where's she going if she loses it? You got an answer for that? You always seem to have an answer for everything else." The voices turned away from my hearing and then arced back into reach. "How could you do that?"
"You're not fooling me. You don't give a damn about her. You're afraid she'll have to come and live with you."
I figured whoever he was arguing with must have been a close relative because their words had serrated edges and they were driving them into the flesh and then yanking them out, an execution best done to someone you're suppose to love.
"Lower your voice, I have neighbors."
"That figures. Your husband teach you that? Your All- American husband. Don't want the neighbors to get the wrong impression, isn't that right? It's the right conclusion but you don't want the neighbors to have it. So hush up, don't tell anyone, don't broadcast it and maybe it will go away. It's un- All-American to reveal sordid details."
I was surprised to hear Ed gouging at American culture while confronting his sister. Not that it isn't an effective rhetorical device, I just hadn't given him that much credit. That slap against the All-American husband was a good appeal to her sense of identity. When I was his age I did the same thing. Everything was about Vietnam. It didn't matter if I had to fill up my gas tank, it was about Vietnam (stay away from Standard Oil, they're supplying oil for the war effort). Or if I needed to open a bank account, it was about Vietnam (not with B. of A., they were in Vietnam). Drive a brand of car, Vietnam (I knew Ford made tanks). The television show I wanted to watch, about Vietnam (if the host was a hawk, I changed the channel). The cereal I was having for breakfast, it was about Vietnam (General Mills left a bad taste in my mouth). And from my perspective, there was no other perspective.
"You're always telling me to be real but it's you who can't confront the truth. It's a downer you say, brings down your morale."
"The truth. You've been keeping such a tight grip on it that you think just a little let up on the pressure, just a little truth revealed, and the whole thing will blow."
I'd heard enough of the two yelling at each other and I had turned towards my car with the thought of extricating Ed's bag from the back seat and putting it on the lawn and then extricating my car from the drive and putting it on the highway when the screen door opened and out he pounced. He got into the car and I followed.
"Let's get out of here."
I didn't have the temerity to ask where we were going. Or why he was coming along. My hopes that we were simply traveling to another side of the town were soon to be adjusted as we headed towards the freeway.